Outside the glass window and inside the forest....

Konfessioner's word

Rockstar!

Anirudh Goswami is someone who intrigued me with his first scrap, after ten scraps, which involved me insisting he write for us, we lost touch! Partly because of the traffic in my scrapbook and my mind and partly because he is one BUSY student of law.. I'm charmed by his poetry..something does stir. Inside the forest is my absolute favourite... You can visit his blog at

http://scorpimage.blogspot.com

Thanks for putting up with Late Lolita Anirudh haha...

Cheers,
Shinjini

Author's intro:

(He never gave me one, and stole this picture from his album..and yeah it's him!!shhhh)

Outside the Glass Window

Outside the glass window have I seen…

Sea of clouds calm and serene…

Divinity flows in their every vein…

Melting away all your pain…

Layers of seamless waves of life…

Stairs to endless caves come alive…

Sitting atop this city of blue …

I’m finally beginning to have a clue…

That in this life I have to be…

The rays of the Sun and the infinite sea…

The emerald mountain and the solitary stream…

Where drops of life together flow…

And everything around it begins to glow…

Astonished by this miraculous show…

Let’s pledge to be the Sun’s Rainbow…

In The Forest

Verse 1

You never see the same river twice..

Be prepared! You gotta be wise..

The next time you go outta that door..

Don’t know what’s there for you in store..

Verse 2

Touching trees and falling leaves..

She smiles as she serenely sees..

The forest full of them who glow..

In pitch darkness they let their light flow..

Chorus

Seamless orbs of water fall..

In myriad ways looking tall..

You try your best to catch them all..

In front of them you feel so small..

Verse 3

I chose these lines for you to see..

The forest glow worms are you and me..

Looking at them I’ve found the key..

Immersed in light I’m finally free..

Structure:

Intro (Main Riff) – 8 bars.

1^st Verse

2^nd Verse

Chorus

Main Riff - 4 bars

3^rd Verse

Chorus

Interlude (violin solo leading along with vocals reciting something in either French/Spanish etc except Punjabi!)

Guitar solo

Chorus sung thrice

(Once over the interlude and twice on the normal music)

Outro with strains of vocal melody - 8 bars.

The Blue Lamp..

Konfessioner's word

Ajita, wow... The sanest Lucknavi lady on the www, a thinker (she's got the neurons guys!!) and someone I still haven't figured out... !! This girl isn't the one next door...and yeah, she likes F.R.I.E.N.D.S and Shelley. A prism for a smile and a spirit... ok !! read on!

"This poem is a narration of a poet’s journey and the forms of ‘thirst’ that a man experiences. Man by the law of society gives up his interests and chooses the ‘RIGHT’ path that is in favour of the ‘Need of The Hour’. As time passes he starts looking for various reasons to feel that he chose the right path, he did the right thing. ‘The Blue Lamp’ is a description of these mixed emotions and thoughts that this warrior [who was once our poet…] experiences on his way back from a battle. All that he knows is that his horse has fought a lot of battles and he has been on the right path until the time he finds himself ‘thirsty’, after one of his battles… in this dusty desert…. That looks familiar…. "

--Shinjini Singh

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Author's intro:

I always thought that I could write well. It was a personal opinion, as there never was an audience. And then, there came a day when this guy [who has been very familiar for no familiar reason] gave me a title and a background to write on… At first, I found it stupid, really… and then I realized how interesting it can be to find out that a lamp [which happens to be blue in colour] which that guy had just seen at a friends place, could help me gather so many thoughts that were always there but were craving to be expressed…

This poem is dedicated to:

Megaware Technologies, for giving me a computer and no work during internship, due to which I had enough time gather and put my thoughts

Ehsan, for the title and background…

Sushma, for giving the most honest review …'I loved it… but I did not understand it!’

‘The Blue Lamp’ talks about a man’s journey in time… It is as imaginative as it is practical.

Virginity, I believe, is a state of mind and I have always agreed with Kipling for putting it so simply

‘We have only virginity to lose,
And where we lose it, there our hearts will be!!’

-Ajita Mishra

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The Blue Lamp

Down a lonely desert,
Speeding on a horse,
With the dust trying to touch the sky,
Yearning…. For an Oasis
A Reflection… A Thought…
Blue Reflection.. Or Blue Thought?
Pensive… Realization…. The Reflection brought the thought,
But my horse had many a battles fought…
Distraction… concentrated weapon of thought
Understanding… the Mother of Confusion…
Tells me all this is just a fusion,
But my horse had many a battles fought…
Attraction… Desire… Madness…
The clutter of past was somewhere lost
Oh!!! How much can a reflection cost?
But my horse had many a battles fought.
The force was with a feeling fraught…
In which my soul was caged when caught…
This is the land of lost content
This is where a poet once was lost…
This is where he made his camp,
The guy, the thoughts and the Blue Lamp….
Oasis, sure, it seemed to be…
His thirst was quenched as he as free…
The place, the Lamp…. Didn’t seem so new…
The Lamp was always kind of Blue…
Oh ask me not how the war was won…
As my horse…. Had many a battles lost…

Running For...

Konfessioner’s Word

It's a bird, it's a plane... no!! it's Anahita Dordi... She's a BE in IT and is studying to be a commercial pilot. I've never spoken to 'Ana' but know her so well courtesy NM and now Sarang. A gorgeous lady with a name that means "the immaculate one".

Anahita's poem this week is strong, and stirs the runner in each one of us. Proud to have you grace the wall Ana!

- Shinjini Singh

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Author Intro

I am an IT engineer from Aurangabad currently in Pune, perusing studies to be a commercial pilot. Writing is my hobby, something I enjoy, something that relaxes me.

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RUNNING FOR...

Running down the lane, I wonder if I can make it.
With the crush of the pebbles under my shoes, I wonder if I can reach there.
Would running help?
Can I run and leave my sorrows behind?
I get a quiet wishper saying NO.
But still I continue running....
Running for hope.
Running for joy.
Running for happiness.
Running for fulfillment.
Running for victory.
Running to forget the past.
Running to make a new start.
Running because;
now its impossible to stop.
As the perspiration trickles down my brow;
I learn, its not going to be easy.
I still RUN.........Later as I continue running I realise that all myquestions are being answered.
Answered by the pain my legs were bearing.
By the cold wind which kissed my face and answereda million questions at a time.
By the soft and tender green grass which I stepped on.
By the sun rays which hit me straight into my eyesand said," Its difficult to face me, but the one who does, never fails".
It taught me that you dont get things on a platter and that hardwork always pays.
Soon I realise that running is not goin to be waste.
I'll definitely get what I wanted.
I will reach there.....There where no one has ever tread.
There where all my whishes will be granted.
There where dreams are realised.
There where the letter ' I ' derives its signiificance and people know me not by my name, but by the way I have come.

Stop!

Konfessioner’s Word

Mandappa, (Mandi to me!) is the archetypal writer-dude... I met him in an orkut community for Dylan fans, his pic (which was Dylan's) made me scrap him a dozen messages in a day...poor guy figured I'd ruin his life! Alas...!! and no I didn't eh Mandi? haha.. he's a copywriter, a poet, a nature lover, with a festish for folk music and pretty girls...lethal lethal!!

He's begun his journey with the word and being a lazy bounder, doesn't really show off his skills...but here's some Coorg curry for you guys.. Read Stop! and tell Mandi what you think.

Welcome to Knk Mandi!

p.s. You sure there aren't no Kings inside the gates of Eden?! :)

cheers,
Shinjini Singh

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Author Intro

Honestly, this is one wierd question. Are two words or a page enough to describe every fleeting moment of my 21 years of existence. From the gentle breeze that blew me from munnar, from home to boarding school in ooty to finally land up in a city called madras. if i say the breeze, will the breeze be the same in the different states. it neveer will, so the words will never do to introduce every tangent of mixed emotions and molecules that make me. i love my confusion, workin as a writer in advertising. a jack of all trades, a king of queens. deeper than the 6 feet of earth they will bury me in. thats about me.

[mandappa to the left with his brother in traditional warrior "costumes" haha..!]
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Stop!

It was just another ordinary day. The sun rose at the usual time. Though the moon came up a little late last night. I was up till four last night. Well not working hard as such, just out wasting some money on those so called pleasures of life. As I spent the previous evening with some friends of mine, talking about the things money could buy. The music player I wanted, the latest gaming gizmo, the pretty frock for my girlfriend, these were the things that swam in my mind. And as we indulged more that night, these things kept hounding me. How was I going to get them? Work, of course. Oops! Almost forgot. Had to be in office early the next day. Was late the entire week and I wont be surprised if I loose my job soon. Hard enough I was training in a top firm.

As any hung over morning I woke up late. Woke up, brushed, cleaned up, got ready as soon as I could, but it wasn’t fast enough. And sure enough I was late. Now I just had two things in my mind as I sat in the bus creaking along to office in peak hour traffic. I wanted to scream out to every one to move. Couldn’t they see I was in a hurry? I could loose my job, for god’s sake. Move, I yelled in my mind. I looked out and realised that most people were in a hurry. And any witness to Indian peak hour traffic would know the chaos that ensues. Honks here, abuses there, cops and cars everywhere. It was maddening and saddening.

This was supposed to be the rat race, the life in the fast line in a big urban town. Sure, it was fast! I could see. There I was, sitting in a metro-bus snaking along at 10 km/h, to a big box, that had no natural air or light. Just a/c and light bulbs! I would then spend the rest of the day flipping through files on a moaning computer. I could eat lunch, and watch a movie by the time a file opened. I spent the day staring at other people’s money. At their accounts. How they made money and how much they made. And if I was to get a salary doing that, you can imagine the kind of money those people must have. Now it does get frustrating. You keep looking at the pittance that fills your bank account at the beginning of every month while the rest of the month you stare at other people’s accounts being filled with pots of gold, literally. Anyway, I had that to worry about the rest of the day. So I filled my thoughts with sugar coated dreams.

Of how, I’d earn and save and buy all those things I dreamt of. How I would write a book and become a famous author. Sell millions of books and make pots of gold. And I could have anything in the world. So I dreamed.

And I dreamed some more. Of how I’d be so rich that I’d buy three four houses. And the one dream house that I would build on a little property in my hometown. Of how I’d be allowed to marry the girl of my dreams, irrelevant of caste or creed. Because I’d be famous and rich, now who can resist that? Of CD players, cars, dining in expensive places. It’s a dream, so I even threw in a trip to Azerbaijan (I don’t even know where that is.)

Yelling. Screaming. Honking. Oops! Back to reality. I am running late. Why isn’t the traffic moving? Oh, the government! Couldn’t they do anything? There again my mind began to race and my heart to pound. Why? Why was every one so incompetent? The roads were traffic-choked, the people had no place to walk, there were squatters on the side walk, four policemen staring into oblivion. Why?

I was thinking about the corruption. The power. The money. The world had become so materialistic that no one cared beyond themselves. No one, not the squatters, not the drivers, nor the policemen. In this so-called hub of activity and new paced life, there was death. Nobody spoke or shared or cared. And to call this modernism!

Finally, after what seemed like eternity I reached my stop. I jumped out and ran. I had to get across the road to reach my office. I was standing amidst a bunch of people as a haggled old man, with one leg, ragged and dirty came up behind me, I tried moving as far as I could from him, within the group so as to not carry his disease.

The light was red. But a few of the group decided to run across, as the traffic was just slowly coming. They ran across. I almost followed suit. I felt a hand stop me from behind, and whoosh! A bus just crossed in front of me. I turned to see the man in rags, who smiled at me and said, “slow down, the worlds going too fast to nowhere.”

The comforts of retribution

Konfessioner’s Word

Amandeep Singh Parmar sounds rebellious. Reads certainly so. His words are straight from the heart and they make sense. They reflect his clarity of thoughts, sensitive nature, and a volcano suppressed within. This gifted young man from Delhi has a striking style of writing and an impressive skill with words.

The little piece he has graced the Korner this week with will be but a taste of his character.

- Sarang Mahajan
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Author Intro

I'm Amandeep Singh Parmar (Aman), 24 years of age, working as a Customer Relationship manager with a small time IT firm, born and brought up in a conservative Sikh family in New Delhi. Most of my writings talk about women, darkness, things which people conceal and voice agnostic sentiments. I've been writing since grade school (5th standard) but it's only now that I've risen above stolen lollipops. I am a rebel with a keyboard & internet access, have been hated for my audacity and a liberal head

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The comforts of retribution

It's been ages since we've felt something...anything! We have become what we feared the most but we're still scared, because what we feared the most has risen to a level which we fear the most now! We all know that this is not the point where we've decided to stop. We'll go further and hence, farther in our delusions of greatness.

The question here is, WHAT do we fear the most? Our infantile feelings of personal omnipotence are helpful enough to search for the answer(s) to the above question. We fear our own breed. A farce called god was created to pacify those who never wanted to accept the truth about their fellow humans.

Who created this farce? 'The One'...for he knew, there's a point some people won't go beyond. So he limited their universe to a few holy verses and books. He then sat back and enjoyed them kill each other in the name of his gift to them.

People call me blasphemous. And who are they?

Puppy Love Set on Fire

The Konfessioner's Word:

Saying Prerna Gupta is a crazy girl would be an understatement! She's a firecracker that keeps getting brighter... We haven't met each other since seven years, she's still a little girl inside and Lucifer incarnate on the outside...horns et al! Currently a business management studies undergrad a Singapore...

This wild one is called "Pixu", and yeah she's cute and short... has nothing to do with writing, no aims in the field.. this is just an honest konfession.

Glad to have you here Prerna!

--Shinjini Singh

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Author Intro:

"I wanna meet my fairy god mother,
the guy that prints money,
a truly honest guy ( That's right lets all laugh on the count of 3. 1... 2... 3...??? booo u all cuz i found one),
Oprah, so she can take pity on me and donate to my charity.
FOr all those wanting, to donate 10 dollars, please call 1800-PixuNeedsMoney-567........"-- Stolen from her Orkut profile because "Pixu" disappeared soon after submitting an article.

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1.5 years of mails, pictures, silly cards, shoe-laces, movie tickets... set it on fire. Hahaha.
Silly movie ticket. The first time we went for a movie, I kept his as a souvenir. Obsessed, I guess. Puppy love. Set it on fire? Damn right I did.

1.5 years of mail. Snail-mail and email. How do you delete 693 emails? His first email that said- "I think we can make it work if only you give us a chance", it hurt just as much as my last email that said- "Don’t you think its just not working out?" And through it all, his replies were- "as long as you are happy". I thought - but that’s not it. What about us? Through it all we faked our insensitivity and composure. When I deleted everything, I prepared myself for a series of relations. Many came n went but it still felt empty.

I thought life would be fine, and it did.

Its been 2 years and now. It doesn't feel empty anymore. Finally I met someone just like him, yet so unlike him. He gave me his shoulder to cry on when my last fling got over. He said, "let us make it work out. Come to my world". Damn right I did. I went with the flow. He's just the guy I always wanted. Things are just the way I've always dreamt of. Luck, I guess.

I did lie to myself once. Cheated on myself. But it’s all gone. All over.
No more do I find strange love notes reappear from unsurprising nooks and corners. No more do I turn to look at any guy who smells like him. Though I still have the 2 inch burn mark on my right arm - an aftermath of me burning myself while proving my ironing skills to him. But every now and then the scar whispers to me - things have cooled down, jus the way they did when he iced your arm.

I thought I would never fall in love again. But I did. Fate and destiny, I guess.

Konfessioner's word:
Gracing the Konfessioner’s Korner this week is another traveler, of lands and of life. Mallika Mehra, a young and talented, dreamy poetess is outwardly just as usual as you and me, but a sea of thoughts and feelings, and of an art to express them, from within.

Her verse, A Drop of Life, is her wonderful perspective of looking at things that would normally be missed in mundane life.

The three Komrades of KnK are Grateful to her for the submission.

- Sarang Mahajan

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The Introduction of the poetess:
Hello everyone,

I am an engineering student from, Cummins College, Pune. I Hate monotony in life and like to challenge conventions. I am passionate about traveling, as in - without direction maps. Without books and music, life would be a desert. I stick to no certain philosophy, wouldn’t it make life monotonous?

And… I wish to know more of myself till the day I die.

- Mallika Mehra

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A drop of life.....

I Lay on my couch, lazily, flipping through the pages of a half torn novel....
The satin curtain teases me every time the wind blows....so tender yet so artificial....
I gaze outside the window....the earth seems still....is it the stillness within?
A pause....and the silence is broken by a thunder....and here it is....
The leaves dance with the wind more gracefully than a couple dancing salsa....
Folding the tip of the page of the novel, placing it on the table beside....I walk barefooted towards the middle of the garden....
I open my palms and a drop comes within....placed so peacefully....
I wonder how the drop adapted to change....
A change from the heaven where it was made to reach the earth....its destination....

Do I feel the burden of that one drop on my palm....?
Just as I wonder a thousand more follow....

A drop of hope....
A drop of joy....
A drop of thrill....
A drop of passion....

A drop of life....

- Mallika Mehra

The Konfessioner's word:

Karma's prodigal daughter graces the walls of the Konfession Korner this week. Welcome Mekhala Chaubal, the invisible msn friend I've had for over two years.... At 20, "The Biskoot Smuggler" as she calls herself, is the quintessential writer...

Forever in love, muse and moon and shine doter, creator of beauty in verse and prose, sinfully sweet and true...The girl brings it all across in her doggerel and her short stories. It's never been so hard to select work for the Korner, we finally zeroed in on "Opium",

"The poem is meant to be from the point of view of Afghani women forced to live under the Taliban regime and what I see as their only means of escape."--Mekhala.

Currently a columnist with "The Gulf News", you can visit the author's column archive at:--

http://archive.gulfnews.com/search/result.jsp?query=mekhala%20chaubal&filters=all&page=1&RadChoice=all

Thanks 'Chorni' for the treat!

- Shinjini Singh

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Author Intro:

Hello All,

My name's Mekhala and I'm a Creative Writing and Global Studies major at Randolph-Macon Woman's College in Virginia in the USA. To me, writing's not a hobby, a passion or even a way of life- it's my reason to wake up everyday. If anyone were to ask me why I write, my reply would be, 'Because, really,what else is there?' Oh, that, and the fact that I want to start a new revolution of the soul.

Laughs, hope, peace everyone.

Mekhala.

In the picture: Mekhala to the right, with a friend at Central Park, New York.
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Opium

Sweet poppies drifting in the wind,

and I taste their charm.

Bittersweet, like love lost,

time and motion mould into one.

Let’s pick some, brew them,

lose ourselves in them.

And maybe, feel free,

if only for a moment.

Tears of Aphrodite,

Ambrosia to our souls,

enchantment in a seed,

we’ll die young, you say

but we say, “We’ve kissed God.”

Veils hide all,

sins are but truths twisted,

Crush the body,

but the spirit soars even now!

Fabric transforms into wings,

like birds we fly,

until at last

sorrow seeps in,

reality rushes back.

And like a bolt from the blue,

fabric weighs me down.

My chador, my Afghanistan,

my poppies, my opium.

The Konfessioner's Word:

Another beautiful mind engages you this week, welcome Janie from England! The first poem I read by this amazing lady was one called "yellow" a passage from which I take the liberty to quote--

"Yellow is the sky
Yellow is the colour
Of daisy centres
That catch my eye
As we walk in yellow fields
Spilling our secrets
Like poppy seeds on Sunday..."

And this is Janie in her element...bright, beautiful and friendly, the yellow sunflower this week at Karma n Konfessions. Cake wars is something deliciously different from what we've featured in the Konfession Korner in the past few weeks... Who's cake wins? Cynthia or Margaret? did your tastebuds tingle? mine did! read on!

- Shinjini Singh

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Author Intro:

Hello, my name is Janie and I live in England. I started writing in February 2006 and found out that I quite enjoy it. Now just I can’t stop and my house, which used to be like a Wimpy show home, is a total mess because I’m too busy writing. I only do housework when my Mother is due to visit, she is a cleaning freak and would go ballistic saw it now…please somebody help me!! Is there a writers anonymous group I can attend where I can get help?…preferably with the vacuuming.

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Cake Wars

The scent of raspberries and baking filled the kitchen. Margaret hummed along to ‘Blake’s Jerusalem’ as she bustled about. She was making cakes and her famous prize winning jam for the church jumble later that day.

“There’s no way that Cynthia is going beat me this time. Who does she think she is anyway?” she said to herself, stirring yet more sugar into the scarlet vat of bubbling globules. “She comes along as brazen as you like, fluttering her eyelashes, chatting up the vicar. She has no idea of church protocol. She’s shameless is that one! Her in her low cut blouses and lacy under slip hanging below her skirt… like a harlot!” Her face hardened and turned the colour of a damson plum when she thought of her rival.

Cynthia had enrolled with the WI not long ago when she’d moved into the area. A widow, looking for time to fill, she’d joined the women’s institute in the hopes of making new friends, but Margaret, the chairperson, had taken an instant disliking to her, when, at the monthly church jumble sale, Cynthia had set up a cake stall. That was Margaret’s department, nobody could bake like Margaret, the woman prided herself on her cream horns and éclairs like you wouldn’t believe and hadn’t taken kindly to the competition at all. Her face had been like stone when all the blue rinse regulars had tried out Cynthia’s wares and then she’d heard them gushing about her chocolate muffins later.

Margaret had spoken to Vicar about it afterwards but had gotten nowhere

“Vicar, I’m sure we don’t need two cake stalls at the jumble,” she’d said, giving him the evils. Margaret had proper fallen out with him of late, he’d ignored her a lot since Cynthia had arrived on the scene and her nose felt distinctly out of joint. Margaret had always prided herself on being his blue-eyed girl but it seemed to her that Cynthia had taken over that slot too.

“One can never have enough cake Margaret,” he’d replied, nibbling voraciously on one of Cynthia’s cream puffs, "besides, it’s all good for business, we’ll have that new church roof in no time at all.”

And so it came to pass that the cake wars began.

Every month, the women would each try to outdo the other by coming up with more and more exotic recipes and fancies than the last time. The one with the most cakes left over at the end of the day was deemed to be the loser. The one whose big cake was chosen for the raffle would glance across at the other with a knowing smirk, as if to say “ yes you bitch, my coffee gateaux pissed all over that pathetic lemon torte of yours.”

Cynthia wasn’t usually so competitive about things, but she’d decided that Margaret needed pulling down a peg and that she was the one to do it. This month would be different; she had a secret ingredient to add to her cakes, ensuring her victory. Her nephew had dropped by as she was baking and she’d told him about Margaret and the cake wars.

“Never fear Auntie, I have just the thing, this will keep the punters coming back to your stall all afternoon, I guarantee it,” he’d said producing a bag of green crushed leaves. “It’s a special herb, you know how cats love catnip? Well, this has the same effect, only on humans. Nobody will be able to stop eating your cakes once they’ve tried one, you’ll be sold out in no time at all, I‘d bake extra if I were you”

Cynthia sniffed it. “It smells strange,” she’d said looking dubious.

“Trust me,” he’d replied, “if you don’t sell the lot I’ll buy them myself.”

Cynthia liberally sprinkled the herbs into each of her batches of cake mixture. Her eyes gleamed when she saw her butterfly buns and rock cakes rising n the oven, they looked fantastic. Now all she had to do was decorate her gateaux, and if that got picked for the raffle, well, that would truly be the icing on the cake for her, equivalent to sticking vees up to that old battleaxe.

The stalls were all set up ready and waiting for the church doors to open as the vicar did his final inspection. Margaret and Cynthia’s stalls were bang opposite across the hall. Their eyes met and they stared daggers at each other through the haze of potted plants, old crockery and wind chimes. A rowdy mob of pensioners could be heard outside, all chomping at the bit to get in and snap up the bargains.

“Right, battle stations ladies,” the vicar addressed his harem of fundraisers as he unbolted the huge wooden doors.

He was almost crushed against the font as the blue rinsers barged through, knocking him flying.

It was always the same; first they browsed the stalls, arguing over who’d seen what first and who should buy it. Sometimes fisticuffs would ensue as hands grabbed at things already being considered by others. Maureen went home with a black eye once, and all over a crimplene frock too. They were like animals. Then it was tea and cake time. It was a bit quieter then, once they’d got cream doughnut or two down them.

Trade was brisk at both stalls initially, Cynthia was rushed off her feet, she’d already sold half of her stock. It was about twenty minutes later when she noticed a strange glazed look in the vicar’s eyes as he munched on one of her butterfly buns.. his third actually. The blue rinse brigade looked distinctly chilled too as they sat supping tea and munching her cakes like there was no tomorrow.

Gloria and Doris approached Cynthia for yet more scones, their uncontrollable giggles could be heard as they stuffed themselves silly. Soon word got around about how fabulous Cynthia’s cakes were. The queue stretched from the organ to the altar as Cynthia bagged up the remains of her bakes and then Vicar slurred his announcement.

“Raffle tickets are now on sale for Cynthia’s wonderful chocolate gateaux.”

Everyone went into a ticket buying frenzy then. Vicar even had to send out for more ticket books, such was the demand.

“By Jove I think you’ve done it Cynthia, the roof is sight!” he cried, gazing at her ample breasts. A strange feeling washed over him, he could feel his erection growing beneath his cassock. “Would you like to stay and have a sherry with me afterwards?”

“I’d love to vicar,” Cynthia smiled triumphantly, fluttering her lashes profusely.

Margaret stood behind her cake stall looking like an ice maiden. Her full trays of scones, cream horns and éclairs stared sadly back at her. Her jars of unsold prize winning jam with their frilly gingham caps seemed to mock her. She was the only one in the room without a smile plastered from ear to ear.

Margaret did smile sometime later. It was after she’d eaten her third slice of chocolate gateaux, the one she won in the raffle.

The Konfessioner's Word:

We have our eldermost guest Konfessioner till date this week. Lets put our hands together for the terrific and elegant Joanne. Her poem FAT really impressed me. We can have a small interactive titbit here... If you ever felt like the person in FAT, would you go to this extreme...?

The whackiest answer gets a K n K gift hamper..! So rake ur brains and be creative...!

In the meantime, read this totally fantastic poem by Joanne...!

Rosie, we are blessed to have you amidst us.

-Nikhil Mahajan


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Author's Note:

Hi, my name is Joanne.. I write under the name of 'Rosie', I am 44 years old and I'm from Stockton on Tees in Cleveland, England. I have a daughter aged 14, Amelia.

I used to write poetry in my younger days and then I never wrote anything for years and years ... until my mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer.

I started writing my feelings and wrote a poem for her 'Our Last Gift For You' which my brother, who is a musician, put music to and we gave it to our mother before she eventually died! She was overwhelmed and I'll never forget that day as long as I live... Anyway... since then I've written about 300 poems on various themes and this is just one of them...

I present to you, FAT.

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FAT

She steps from the bathroom scales
hating herself for being so weak,
and catching sight of her reflection...
wonders how she became such a freak.

Today would be so different.
Today she'd be strong, she was sure.
With her stash of laxatives to help
flush the badness straight out of her.

Just liquid today, she's decided,
and the pills would get rid of all that.
So she'd no longer have to hide away
from the world, for being so fat.

She sleeps through the day.. she's so tired.
Waking only as nature demands,
then as darkness starts to engulf her,
she's so proud she's achieved what she planned.

Two days later, she wakes in a hospital bed...
her ravaged body can't take any more.
She knows the drill, the drips are attached
to her wasted body.. a tiny size four.

-Rosie 22.03.2006

The Konfessioner's word:

Novu is an absolute delight to read. A short piece of prose interspersed with poetry might sound irrelevant but she does it just right...

What more..! NM has become a total Novu freak...!

To catch more of Novu, visit her blog at http://novu.blogspot.com/index.html

-Nikhil Mahajan

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Author intro:


I'm Catherine and I was born and I live in England; a seventeen year old student with a love of art, especially that of the written word. I writeshort stories, poems and anything else that comes to mind. I see writing as a window to the world, an ocean of awareness.

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SOUL TUNNELS

I slide through another day of the one thing needful. I think my favourite colour is always changing. I don’t speak in riddles, actuality scorns my tongue. It’s not that hard to understand.

I didn’t write a film script; it scares a portion of my mind. Dialogue is not my strong point. I drew the pictures instead, and then painted more. I sat here turning the pages, wondering why I was reading it over again.

Acid rises in my throat
Burns like coarse nails
Scraping hard, jarring back
Into a stapled mouth

I walked along the edge today, where kingdoms are clay. I’m still wondering if this is my home. The cloud smiles. This town is grey, and I hate the monotony. Antique ruined streets run further than I can see, pigeons fly in their groups, smashing their faces into bus windows. They see in 12 frames per second.

I saw a grey squirrel with its eyes hanging out of their sockets. Someone moved it away from the side of the road so the cars wouldn’t ravage its body anymore. The kittens on my road got run over; I used to take them into my house and give them a drink before they would run off back home.

Averting gazes
See in constant perception
Echoes of forgotten sounds
Smiles from forgotten faces
This town breathes fumes

There’s a bouquet of flowers tied to a lamppost at the end of my road. Matt is dead, got too pissed and fell in front of a car.

The Indian man waits in the doorway of his restaurant, leers as I walk past. There is more scaffolding, a flashing image of an old friend falling through and breaking their skull comes to mind. I walked under the ladder, superstition never reached me. I cross each road, as mad car drivers stare, swerve, swear, stall. Billboards tell me to shop in M&S, go to France with Condor Ferries, and buy the new Hyundai. Struggle and fail.

Lunch in a pub, I sit watching the awkward faces of my relatives, the woman my father calls his fiancé talks about what she always talks about. I am drifting off in my own thoughts, and I smile, because the one I love is always there, a sigh of warmth in my heart.

Awful necklaces and earrings are passed around, and I am expected to wear them for my father’s wedding day. Camera flashes, atomic bright, catches my eyes. More photos, more fake smiles. I do not want to be here.

Fuck you
Hesitant scowls
Warning signs for you
Understand this, father
I’m not really here
You don’t know me anymore

I’d rather walk home. I leave as quickly as I chase words across this page. I listen to the nothing song, with a language written from emotion, with no meaning, but everything encompassed in a single voice.

I flick across pages, try to catch words, focus on images. I can’t find my breath without him, and I sit wondering, and worrying like I do. Love floats on a warm breeze, and I hope it reaches him, so far away.

The baby stretches, and yawns, smiling up at me as I tell her things about my day. She doesn’t need to understand. Her eyes, blue and guiltless, no judgment, only wonder. The eyes are soul tunnels, a window to a life. Hers has only just begun.

Walk behind the sky
I would move the sun for you
See more than I have
Fathomless depths are yours to feel
Light kisses from my swaying ocean
Sleep in my arms, this warm love
Speeds across the bluest skies

-Novu

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The Konfessioner's Word:
Well, the second select for this weeks Konfession Korner is Nikhil a 19 year Old based in Baramati.
His story stirred all the three konfessioners...
And so we thought... Hell! This one should be here...
Shin-Shin in particular was pretty impressed by it. The end especially.

-Nikhil Mahajan

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Author Intro:

Nikhil Panicker is a 19 year old biotechnologist. He is appropriately rebellious
Having commited suicide thrice, He is now
concentrating on completing his graduation in Bio-Tech from Baramati.

Now handing it over to Nik Pan..!

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God's FIngers

"Its not your fault.... My descision totally", he wrote, mirroring the immortal thoughts of Freddy Prinze Sr..He nervously looked over the three letters he had written;one to each of his parents, and the other to that fictional yet ever enduring entity they called God(A letter denouncing him, and his existence).This was it; the end,where he would discontinue to live,where the pain would all end,along with the memories,the suffering,the bloodsweattearslovehatemusic and all the other miscellaneous constituents of his wasted,essentially purposeless life.The internet,useful as it always is in such circumstances, provided him with a sure fire method; A simple,everyday, easy to use vanilla essence bottle seal.(Swallow it.If you dont choke on it and die immediately, itll rip your intestinal tract out and you'll be digested from the inside! Unbelievably simple! Guaranteed effective!! Completely infallible!!!).He pondered for a moment, why people would create sites like these with so much apparent enthusiasm.He chortled for a second, and suddenly admonished himself for letting his mind stray from the serious task at hand.He ran the innocous looking seal over his palm.
They say depression is the result of irregularities in the brain chemical level.They have no idea.No person can actually understand or explain manic depression, until he has gone through it himself..Its like a physics professor trying to explain why people find rainbows beautiful.Experience gives you insight into a situation that books will never be able to.True perspicuity can never come from the theoretical confines of written material.Brain chemicals my ass.
His hands were shaking as he placed the seal into his mouth, and a torrent of thoughts burst forth from his brain, pulsating and hitting him like digitized trucks,tearing him apart from the seams...
pain......
kill......
life.....
end.....
love....
please....
mom....
love...
pain.....
kill.......
die......
now......
must.....
force....
pain...
burst....
love....
mom....
pain.....
kill.....
He forced the seal down, and let out an angiushed wail, he could push no further...A sudden wave of self hate streamed through him,and he swallowed till he felt flesh tear... He spat the seal out, and it rolled over the floor. leaving behind a thin trail of blood.He felt the warm, steady, salty trickle gently flowing from the inside of his throat..He had done it.He lay down and waited for it to end.He had finally done it.He never thought he'd have the guts to pull it off,but he did! He had never felt so calm,and as he quietly waited for it to end,he visuallized his mother.Two tears gently rolled down his cheeks, and suddenly, everything had become clear.."I hope i dont die" were the words he kept thinking as the tears and the blood streamed on.He drifted off, slowly.
He woke the next morning,when the early morning sunlight hit his face.He didnt remember what had happened for a second,and suddenly he sat, up,recalling what had happened the previous night.He had survived.The previous night's letters and the bloody seal were the only reminders of what had happened."Did it really happen?", he thought, and just then he coughed out dried blood,His throat was still very sore, and it ached terribly, but he smiled nonetheless, for he knew that everything was going to br allright.The sunlight shone through the clouds in narrow beams of light,and they seemed to gently touch him.."God's fingers", he thought,"They call them God's fingers."

-Nikhil Panicker

The Konfessioners' word:

Sagar is the first to feature in our EXCLUSIVE Konfession Korner. Based in Singapore this guy is an absolutely brilliant poet. You will agree with me the moment you finish reading his wonderful poem... Called WAVES...

Just reminds me of the waves i had seen at the Juhu beach, late that night. When i was pondering about life... just giving me a hint of how life is full of infinite opportunities... surging at you like the waves... All you have to do is stand and face them. They hit you... but give u something.

But Sagar's Poem is not about this... it is something totally different. And trust me...
Its brilliant.

-Nikhil Mahajan

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Author Intro:

Sagar Epili is a 20 yr old who is into investment banking.
Over to Our Konfessioner 1:
Mr. Sagar Epili.

I konfess...
I aint no Keats, but I gave poetry a try
When I lost someone I treasured, and I didnt even know why.
I always manage to see the glass half-full
While I learn in B-School, to ride a bear better than a bull.
I savour the variety that is soccer, rushdie and the wall street
"He was a man who knew exactly how to live- my epitaph to read"

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The sand lay lazy, tickled by feet many
The waves threatened once, twice, one too many.
Mirth and careless innocence danced around
And there she was…ever so beautifully on the ground.

She loved the water; not so much to get drenched
And romanced the brightness; not so much to leave the rock’s shadow
A smile adorning her face ever so lightly
May be she dreamt of a world of angels, or a pristine meadow.

I discovered her then. Or did I?
All by herself and yet so complete. On the sand dry.
Neither apprehension, nor anonymity.
As if we were long lost friends from the city.

Of family and friends and places we talked
And volumes of past in a nutshell wrapped.
There was something in the air that augured a bond
Discover each other we did, but ever so silently.

And then we met, and met again
In company we lost touch of the world.
As the sand dropped down the other half,
I realized we were the same soul.

It felt like heaven, if ever there was one
The beauty magnified of everything around.
So sweetly unaware of the ebbs and flows
Thinking waves would keep kissing our feet as gently as ever.

Night lost its relevance, so did the day.
But the clouds had gathered.
Storms were brewing, much to our innocent nonchalance
No idea how it would leave us battered.

Would we survive it? Was I strong?
And of all, Why so soon?
But Lady-Fate scripts its own story
Of me and her, she could care less.

Moist eyes and forced out grins
Made life a woeful liability more than god’s gift.
Retrospection…and more of it
Showed some light; faint, but there.

Accepting one is human makes life so simple
So crystal clear, painless, fun and strong.
Oh Love, pardon us for moving away from you.
We always knew you were there. We were weak, we were wrong.

The sun winked his way out of the clouds, cautious yet sturdy.
There was brightness again, and the same mirth in the air.
Made me realize that when hearts are one
Lives can be lived, beating tempests of despair.

The sand still lays lazy, awaiting the tickle of our feet.
While waves, shyly yet with menace, caress yet pound the shore.
Drawing in pebbles and dirt, in brightness and dark,
For life is about taking in, giving back…ever so patiently…ever so strongly.

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